growing older and growing up

When I was a kid, the very fact of time passing ensured that I would become a better me. I just had to bide my time. Everyone knew fourth graders were infinitely cooler than second graders; high schoolers far more sophisticated than middle schoolers. Seniors in college dropped the right names and flashed knowing looks - so to a freshman, all that seemed necessary was to keep on keeping on, and then one day one would also arrive in the land of cool. The very act of waking up again in the morning, one day older, made me one day smarter, one day more capable, one day more independent. How very reassuring! All you have to do is wait. You'll be able to do that when you're older, they told us. When you're older.

I remember the moment I realized that getting older was no longer the equivalent of getting cooler. It was during my senior year of college, waiting to go into a dance class. The accompanist was chatting with the teacher outside the studio and I could hear their conversation. They were both probably in their late 40s or early 50s. The teacher was a small, spare woman with copious amounts of salt and pepper wavy, frizzy hair that ended midway down her straight back and she was listening to the accompanist with her entire body, nodding with empathy and kindness as he talked about his troublesome mother and not knowing how to communicate with her about his current relationship. He looked lost as he spoke. He had a terribly sad face. I watched them, trying not to watch them, and I realized that I very well might be agonizing over my relationships and feeling lost and unsure of the right path to take thirty years hence. It doesn't change! It is always hard to be a person! We are mysteries to ourselves, and at least in adulthood, the simple fact of growing older does not provide much illumination.

I have long thought of the process of growing up as one of becoming more and more ourselves - more and more true to who we really are, more and more able to clear away the junk and express that person with honesty and love. Having the courage to let go of the fear, insecurity, and resentfulness that twists up and perverts our true selves - this seems a mark of maturity. Have we not all encountered people in our lives, especially older people, whose eyes shine with that light - a light of unencumbered being?

And here we are, at the end of a decade; the first that I have lived entirely as an adult. These ten years mark time in which it was up to me to keep growing and becoming; to cling less and trust more, and hopefully shine a little brighter for it. I couldn't rely on the older-as-better rule of childhood. These past ten years included extraordinary change and major life choices. Becoming a parent was surely the most earth-shaking and complete transition of them all.

What I am wondering today, on the cusp of a new decade, is how did becoming a parent impede or facilitate my shining forth? Becoming a parent sealed the deal and turned me forever into a real grown up. But how did becoming a parent impact my actual growing?

This is complicated, isn't it? Do we - especially the mothers among us - become more honestly, truly ourselves while caring intensively for others? It's not just the physical care we provide; it's the total shift in our centers of gravity. I used to worry about me. Now I worry about them. (Okay, I still worry about me - just not as much!)

A few months after Frances was born, I remember realizing with some surprise that I felt gratitude for the way this small person took all my worry and care. Much of my twenties were spent trying to figure out what to do with my life - what kind of work would be most meaningful, where to live, how to balance marriage, work, friendship, and family - and suddenly I was completely wrapped up in someone else's flourishing. I found it exhilarating. I found it to be a welcome respite from myself. I couldn't agonize over a decision for weeks - I didn't have the energy or inclination anymore. It was pretty nice.

Four and a half years later, I still appreciate the ability to focus on someone besides myself. But while I was paying attention to others, I haven't gone anywhere. Living with small children sure does make it easy to ignore problems of my own. Or rather, to put them off until they become so big they demand attention in a forceful way. Raising my children has been my work these past 20 months and there have been times when I wasn't sure who I was - or what I was good at, or good for. Immersed so completely, it can be hard to remember who I was before, what I thought about, talked about, offered to the world outside my kitchen. I am so rarely alone; it can be hard to hear my own voice.

Okay. So there is a challenge - the shaky confidence that undermines the expression of who I really am. But. There are many things my children have given me that I feel deep gratitude for. These gifts connect to the deep down me, and the deep down in all of us. That is why they are precious.

During endless hours spent with my children, I have rediscovered wonder and delight in the natural world, creative expression of all kinds, the joy of music, the beauty of language, a vivid sense of connection to the past and the future, renewed sensitivity to the world around me, the value of simplicity, the presence of the sacred in daily life. I get to play. I have become less able to tolerate dishonesty, violence, cruelty. I experience both rage and joy most days, and countless emotions in between. Who knew domestic life could be so intense?

Being a parent affords a glimpse of the world through a child's eyes. Some of the best parts of us are rooted in what is still childlike about us, and the reminder of this is a pleasure to receive. What's more, my children accept me and even delight in me, in my mistakes and messy hair and bad jokes. I suspect I don't fully appreciate the healing power of this radiating, simple love. As I search for meaningful work outside our bubble, I can only hope to carry my children's gifts with me, lending me courage to be who I am. And with grown ups, too.

things we love now

I've been wanting to share some of these odds and ends with all of you for some time, just some little things that have made our days sweeter - or at least tolerable - depending on how much sleep Gabriel has accrued in the past 24 hours. Oh yes, the sleep disorder has become family-wide, but Mike and I are putting a new plan in action, so perhaps things will improve. It always feels better to have a plan. Even if it doesn't work, or is ill-conceived, we're grabbing hold of the reins and that is reassuring.
But what am I talking about? This is to report on the happy, engaging, merry stuff of our days as we inch along towards December 25th. Perhaps you might take some inspiration from our list - or share with all of us some of your favorite things that have been filling your winter days.

The Nutcracker
Frances, Grandma Lala and I went to see the ballet last year. That was exciting, to be sure, but by the endless little solos of sugar plums and other dancing sweets in the second act Frances was downright limp with the effort of it all. "The is a VERY LONG ballet!" she would periodically remind me, in a 3 year old's stage whisper. This year we read E.T.A. Hoffman's original story instead, with pictures by Maurice Sendak. I'd never read it before. The three of us absolutely loved it. Even Gabriel would sit with us during long chapters because he was entranced by the illustrations of the Mouse King and Princess Pirlipat and all the other creatures therein. There is some odd business involving Blackamoors, and of course the fact that Marie marries herself off at the age of 7 is a little strange too. (Sorry for that spoiler!) But it's totally forgivable, because of the fantastical, loopy, engaging nature of both the story and the language.

Sufjan Stevens singing Christmas songs
This is very sweet and cheery stuff. It can transform our kitchen from a chaotic room in which my attention is divided too many times over for me to complete any one task successfully into a merry, sparkly place where people both small and big break out into spontaneous song and dance routines. I'm still burning cookies and forgetting my coffee in the microwave, where it is cooling for the second time this morning, but I'm doing it all with a genuine twinkle in my eye.

Mama singing Christmas songs
Good thing children are so forgiving. No one snickers when my voice cracks during Silent Night, no one protests when I can't remember the words for the second verse. This morning I rocked in Gabriel's room, snuggling with both tired children, who requested song after song after song. Frances sang a couple with me and that nearly made me cry. Then in the middle of The First Noel, or maybe Hark the Herald Angels Sing, my sensitive boy lifted his head from my shoulder and looked up at me with a quivering lower lip and a sheen of tears in his eyes. Oh, did you get sad Gabriel? He looked back at me and slowly nodded - a tiny bit - and one shining tear escaped from the corner of his right eye. We hugged more and Frances kissed his head and then I kept on singing. All this before 7:30 in the morning!

Ginger Tea
A little cold virus has been softly yet persistently knocking on my door for the last week or so. I think he finally gave up on the door and squeezed in through a crack yesterday, as evidenced by a sore throat, but I am not dismayed. I have ginger tea! Inspired by a recipe in a handed-down magazine, I have a little pot of water and ginger slices pre-pounded with a mortar and pestle (by small, eager hands) simmering on the stove most of the time. The tea is very strong and spicy. When mixed with a little lemon and honey, it makes my virus cower in fear. How satisfying!

Rainbow Quest
Some of you may have linked to Elizabeth Cotton and Pete Seeger on one of my recent posts. When we found that clip on youtube, I decided we needed to see and hear a bit more, and so we've been watching the Stanley Brothers and Doc Watson on Pete Seeger's early 60s folk show, Rainbow Quest. I know I have recently shared our video ban, but I'm no purist, and this is delightful to watch. I am aware that I may be making our kids even weirder ('What are Transformers ? Hey, let's pretend we have no teeth and play fiddle in an old time bluegrass band instead!!). Today I say: who cares! Join me, friends! Let us raise our children to wear lumpy wool sweaters and play the banjo!

...and Much Cheesier Musical Selections
We were the lucky recipients of a short DVD featuring the Music Together Band playing to an audience of bouncing, grinning, unabashedly enthusiastic music directors from all over the country at a program conference. Gabriel has been going to Music Together classes these past few months. To all you suspicious, even snide parents out there - and I know, I used to be one - it really is fun to share stuff like this with your kids. Frances's early years were spent listening to 60s pop music and favorite indie bands (of the de-sexualized, Belle and Sebastian type variety), with a little Bach thrown in. So this is a definite shift. Some of the MT songs push my tolerance level a little, but when I see my children dancing around, it doesn't bother me a bit.
I knew I had really gone over to the other side yesterday. Frances was home sick from school and we watched this DVD together. A bespectacled, bearded man who goes by the name Uncle Gerry was singing in a batik vest - you can see him now, belting out a song about body parts in Spanish - and I was singing louder and dancing harder than either of my kids. Oh, it was fun! I am shameless; I love to dance and sing!

Cookie Cutters
After making these gingerbread cookies and these delicious chocolate-salt shortbread cookies the cookie cutters have been out and about in our kitchen. And so I've succumbed and joined millions of mothers in cutting heart and star shaped sandwiches for my children. (Can we ever go back? I think not.) But since I am a frugal housewife, I insist that the shape be served with the remains. A lesson in negative space, perhaps?
Today I gave Frances her 'second breakfast' - a heart-shaped open-faced cream cheese sandwich, with two pieces of sandwich on either side of her heart. Frances exclaimed: it looks like it has wings! It looks like GOD!!
If some part of God is a heart-shaped piece of homemade lumpy whole wheat bread spread with cream cheese - well, that sounds alright to me.

scenes from the season, plus a little something for poppy

Santa and Rudolph, doing a practice run in the living room.

Our first snowy evening in Annapolis.

Mucking about in the Christmas tree farm mud.

Endless kitchen crafting...

I had no hope of keeping the ornaments on the tree; just in the tree's vicinity.

another dispatch from the greenhouse

I've got another tale for you from life with my little hothouse flowers. I mean, ahem, orchids.

I just read an article in December's Atlantic about the 'orchid' hypothesis - a shift in how researchers are conceptualizing the gene-environment interplay and the way it determines mental health outcomes. Usually we hear about vulnerability; if someone has a certain gene associated with depression, for example, and finds herself in an unstable, less-than-nurturing environment, she is more likely to become depressed than someone without the gene. So, if you have one of those bad genes, do your best to avoid trauma, loss, poverty, etc - because bad genes + bad environment spells mental illness! I think the silver lining here was supposed to be that you can carry a bad gene and have good parents and do just fine, that is, you can avoid the suffering of poor mental health. Our genes don't tell the whole story about us.

The orchid way of thinking about this is that those bad genes are not actually bad at all. Instead we might call them sensitivity genes. The author of the piece, David Dobbs, often uses the word plasticity. Turns out a child with these extra sensitive genes may do extra-poorly in a bad environment, but the same child will do extra-well in a good environment. Apparently Swedes like to talk about dandelion children (resilient, grow anywhere, hardy) and orchid children (can easily wilt, but are extraordinary and beautiful with good care). High risk, high reward. Dobbs places this within evolutionary thinking -- there are good reasons to have both dandelions and orchids in any society, and perhaps we select for orchids because of the high potential inherent in them that can benefit the entire social group.

So, on first read, I thought: well, yeah. Haven't you all heard me talk of the double-edged swords that are my children? How the things that drive me most nuts about them are the things that make them most incredible? Joking about my hothouse flowers, then swooning about their insights or art? We already know this about people. The sensitive types are the ones we want to be our closest friends; they are our kindred spirits. Not that we are all orchids. Perhaps someday we'll all be testing our genetic makeup and then we can reconvene with some hard data in hand, determining once and for all our flower camps - but who needs it? I didn't need Dobbs to report on the varied ways our behavioral genes can express themselves to know that my intimates are both resilient and responsive along a shifting continuum...

But in the end, this research trend strikes me as positive, for our broader conversation about health and for my own thinking. I have worried about my children, burdened as they are with considerable mental health problems in their family history. The deck seemed stacked against them in this regard. I had never thought of their genetic inheritance as a cause of potentially spectacular blooms.

Of course there also seems a risk here of heading back into misogynist traditions of blaming moms for everything; my 35 year old unemployed son who listens to records in our basement all day could have been a GENIUS if not for my failures as a parent! He had the genetic marker for greatness, and this evil mommy turned him into a depressive!

But that is so glass-half-empty of me. Let us instead join Dobbs in considering those risky orchid genes as springboards. Possibilities! Incredible potentialities! And so, dear reader, I will conclude with the promised story from sensitive kid central, aka our house:

As I am drying Frances off after her bath, she asks me what animals we should pretend to be tonight. Sea turtles, I suggest. She likes sea turtles, and so do I. So there is a lot of Mama Sea Turtle! Help me brush my turtle teeth! sort of talk as we get ready for bed, light and silly. We do our story and prayer and song all snuggled up in her bed and then Mike kisses Frances and now it is my turn to wrap things up. Frances is lying on my chest, curled up. Just as I am about to resettle her and turn off her light, she pushes up on my chest and says:
Mama. Pause button. Sea turtle mamas lay their eggs and then go back into the water without the babies?
Yes.
But how long does it take the babies to hatch?
Awhile, I'm not sure.
More than a day?
Yes.
And the babies hatch all by themselves?
Yes, then they flop into the water and grow up on their own.
(Frances's eyes are filmed with tears at this point, and even wider than usual).
But if I was your baby turtle and swam into the water and swam right past you would you even know it was me, your little baby? Do mama turtles know their own babies?
(My eyes are wet and this point and I am trying to laugh rather than cry and so say something like -
Well I would know you anywhere silly turtle girl!!
(but really I am crying with the awfulness of it too)
Mama, that's not what I'm talking about, I'm talking about real turtle mamas and babies. They wouldn't know, would they? They would be alone!

You're getting the picture. She is hovering about 2 feet above my face during all this, those outrageous brown eyes sparkling with tears and the lower lip is close to it's full-blown tragedy tremble. She is demanding we confront the horror together. If I weren't such a goddamn orchid myself I could have led her into something fun and jokey before we were at this point, staring at each other, trying to be brave and contain all the feelings of the moment (our own and each others'). I settled her down somehow though, with lots of hugs and reassurances that I would love her and know her forever, and finally said goodnight.

In the morning, Frances slowly came down the stairs, waving her arms at her sides, sort of puffing her cheeks out and shlumpfing her feet across the kitchen floor all the way to where I sat with early bird Gabriel.  She did not say a word, but I knew it was my baby turtle, come out of her egg. How did she know where I would be, here in this vast ocean? I held out my arms and told her: I'm your turtle mama, and I am so, so happy to finally see you, my darling little one.

the good guys, the bad guys, and the superhero princesses

I hear about superhero princesses a lot. Frances and the other children in her class play this game of high drama everyday on the playground. Frances reports on the plotlines when I pick her up, while I'm making dinner, over breakfast, etc. It is clearly occupies a big place in her imagination.

Tonight during her bath, Frances told me the bath animals (Sheeprad, Pigrad, Pink Nose the Cow, Purple Nose the Cow, Duckalo, and Five Months the Little Duck -- everyone except Horserad, who was sleeping soundly with Gabriel in his crib) were going to school and they were going to play a scary game. Sheeprad was the Witch! A Bad Witch! And Sheeprad was going to try to get all the other animals. Some violent splashing ensued...Frances looked up at one point, snapped out of the imaginary animals-in-school universe, and told me it was okay that Sheeprad wanted to be the bad guy.

You know, Grandma always liked to play the bad guy in school when she was a kid.
(Frances tells me this with the hanging-in-the-air smile that looks like she is trying to convince herself it really is okay to play the bad guy.)
Lots of kids like to be the bad guys, Mama.
Oh. Do you like to pretend to be the bad guy?
No. Because bad guys shoot people and kill them. I don't like to do that. (She is looking at the newly demonic Sheeprad while she talks). Only the boys in my class like to be the bad guy; they like to chase and kill people!*
The girls don't like to pretend to be bad?
No. In superhero princesses, the girls are the mama, the big sisters, or the little sister. There's no papa in the family. And the bad guy tries to get us and kill us.

Woah. All this killing! Really? I knew there was a lot of imaginary, chasing-around type play in her group, but I didn't know she was understanding the bad guy's intentions as murderous. (And yes, she has thought that through, at least enough to know that 'I'll kill you!' in a game has some relation to actual killing). Back to our conversation:

What do the sisters do?
Well, the little sister is the littlest one in the family, and if the mama has to go out of the house, she knows the little sister can't protect herself from the bad guy, so she has to close the door of the house and lock it when she leaves. So the little sister will be protected in the house. She has to stay inside because she might not be able to run fast enough.
Who's the little sister?
I am. Every day!
Do you like that?
No. But they always wants me to be the little sister.

I am imagining Frances yelling and screaming along with the other kids from inside the little play house that sits in the middle of the play area, watching the others run for their lives. I am imagining her working up her character, playing up the smallness, the vulnerability, feeling a little resentful but agreeing nonetheless. (Oh, to be a girl! Sadly, I'm of very little help with this one...)

It isn't surprising, not really. In a way it's an image that applies to other games I've observed her play with some of her school friends - it's as if she were isolated in that little house in the middle of everything, participating but feeling - and being - a little peripheral. She is the youngest kid in her class (everyone else has already turned five and her birthday isn't until June) and there is something about the inner logic of some of their group games that escapes her. At one classmate's birthday party, I watched six or seven girls jumping up and down on a bed, chanting with great enthusiasm: Tie Heath Up! Tie Heath Up! (Heath was the birthday girl's nine year old brother, and he was getting ready to battle the little girls, with the aid of a slouchy silent friend). Frances was among these crazed girls. She had the reddest face, the widest eyes, the loudest shout, and when the chanting subsided a little she asked/shouted in the same mode: Who's Tie?

Sometimes it's all trees and no forest. I usually chalk it up to developmental stuff, that she's just not there yet. She whole-heartedly buys into mob psychology but doesn't always know why the mob is so worked up; it's just fun for her to go along for the ride. So fun, in fact, that she sometimes becomes a group leader of sorts, her wild enthusiasm blindly propelling everyone forward. (See this post for another example of Frances charming big kids without really getting what the heck game they were playing).

So is there a problem? Is anything wrong with joining the crowd in their games that pit good against evil, even if you don't really understand what's going on? I think for Frances at least, not understanding something can be a source of stress. It gives her that raggedy edge, a frantic fragility. I think the idea of a bad guy killing a good guy (or at least wanting to) disturbs and frightens her. She doesn't have the temperament, the tools, to allow this to pass through her. In short: it's not such a good thing for her to be involved in this play every day at school, and this might explain why she goes along with being shut up in the little play house. Maybe she really does need protection.

A couple of days ago, I scrapped the active, outdoor advent treat for the day (plucked from our calendar that I am so gaga about) after I spent two hours lost on the way home from DC with a grumpy Gabriel in the car, singing I've Been Working on the Railroad far too many times to count. I decided instead of Quiet Waters we would watch a video. This is a major treat for Frances. We've pretty much phased video watching out entirely (with the exception of this sort of thing - magic!). I used to condone library rentals, PBS shows etc, a few times a week. This was last year, when Gabriel was younger and harder and I was more depressed and isolated in Annapolis and under some weird impression that kids are supposed to watch a little TV. But with time and confidence, I came to the conclusion that videos are just not good for Frances. I don't think this is true for all kids. But she processes things so very hard, and the images and characters colonize her extraordinary imagination so thoroughly. It also makes her grumpy. One episode is never enough, so we end up fighting about it. Ugh. So I finally decided: skip it. And I have not regretted that decision one tiny bit.

So, you know I was desperate when I hit Netflix and chose a Sesame Street special at random called Elmo in Grouchland. Mandy Patinkin plays a bad guy, whose badness is really toddlerness (he sings lots of songs about everything being mine mine mine!). Frances asked me no less than twenty times if his character was a real person or not, and was he really a bad guy? I told her he was an actor who is good at acting and singing and probably really nice. But is he nice right now? But is he acting or is that really him? Is he really a bad guy Mama? How could he be nice if he's being mean to Elmo?

So much for zoning out in front of the TV. But it was striking: she couldn't wrap her mind around an actor playing the part of someone bad without actually being bad - ie doing what her friends do every day on the playground. The other day, Gabriel drew a circle with a blue marker on a big sheet of our brown butcher paper. He happily shouted ball, ball! while pointing to his picture. Then he stopped and stared at it. Kick, kick he said, trying to kick the image. Then, with some frustration: Turn! He was waiting for his turn to play with the ball he just created. The fuzzy line between creation/pretend/ representation and real life is especially fuzzy for Gabriel. It surprises me to discover it can be for Frances too.

Mike asked me if I thought the ban on videos was making it even harder for her to figure this stuff out. He asked if we were doing her a disservice, making it more difficult for her to play with her peers and get along with other kids.* As in, perhaps watching videos would give her some more practice and familiarity with things like superheros and princesses.

The conversation depressed me. Must I re-prioritize values in order to make Frances more 'normal'? I do believe that not watching videos has made for a happier, more creative child. I also believe that social skills are important, and she is an especially social creature. Short of founding a school for weird amazing smart and wacky kids in Annapolis, I don't know if there's all that much I can really do to take the edge off Frances's experience of her own difference. She's heading for public kindergarten next year. Brace yourselves for more of these wonderings from me...





*All you mamas with little boys out there, see Amelia's post on boyness for a lovely description/defense of shooting and killing.


**Later that night we watched an episode of The Office (the ban on videos does not extend to us) in which the social misfit character, Dwight, mentioned he had not been allowed candy or movies as a kid. And that he liked to farm with his shirt off. Mike and I looked at each other: Frances! Is she going to become Dwight?? Very little candy and movies, and she loves to take her clothes off, and to talk about the garden. Really, I know she's not a Dwight, but it did give us pause. I guess this is just an example of how those kind of choices are seen as freakish to most red-blooded American TV watchers.

p.s.

Here is how our advent calendar looks now:

I decided to embroider the numbers. I love the way it looks but I think I might not get to 24 until the children are in middle school. But, you know, process over product, right?

And apropos of my last post re: the medical care on offer night and day at our house, I wanted to share Frances's latest doctoring development:

Frances asked why doctors carry pens in their coat pockets. I explained it is mostly to write prescriptions but also to record information in a patient's medical record. What's a medical record? Well, a few more questions later, Frances is asking me how to spell 'infection' and after bedtime I found these notes, clearly intended for our charts.

And finally, a couple of moments from our wild, windy afternoon at the playground. Here's to the elements, and the salutary effects of wind, sun, and water on a brisk December day.

a budding sense of humor is a beautiful thing

Frances has been playing pretend doctor with great enthusiasm and dedication for about two years now. I have fond memories of walking in the front door after work, my big belly preceding me, to be greeted by: Mama! Let's put some jelly on your belly, sit down! And Frances would run for a tape measure and whatever little object she had imbued with magic doppler essence, lift my shirt, squirt some pretend jelly on my big belly, rub the little object around and listen to the baby's heartbeat, do a lot of serious measuring ... then suddenly, in a brusque, business-like gesture she would yank my shirt back down and the appointment was over. Whew. Now we can get on with our evening! We did this routine every day for weeks. And after Gabriel was born, her doctoring did not subside in the slightest. Check ups, sick visits, you name it.
So it is no surprise that Gabriel, aged 19 months, is an old pro at playing doctor. Well, usually he plays the nurse, and his main duty is administering shots. Lots of shots. I had to have about 17, right in the knee, while I was making dinner tonight. He gets that Frances (wearing an enormous lab coat, handed down from Dr. Hruby Smith, pens sticking out of the pockets with a plastic stethoscope slung around her neck) is the doctor and he is the nurse. He seems to like this set up and as long as he gets a turn with the shot, he's happy. So this evening in the middle of doctoring and dinner-making, Nurse Gabriel starts to get a little loopy. Starts to lean against my legs, in that totally exhausted mood in between laughing and crying (that's what happens by dinner when you wake up at 5 am) and catches my eye and says: NURSE. WANT TO. Okay, this is the verb nurse he's talking about, and it's maybe the only thing that will carry him through given his mood, so I sit down with him. Frances asks if the nurse is ready to see their next patient.
The nursing nurse, you mean?
Gabriel looks up at me and grins. Thinks a minute. Stops nursing to repeat: a nursing nurse! Nursing nurse! Giggles, and then belly laughs, ensue. He tries to keep nursing but he keeps remembering the joke and cracking himself up.
A nursing nurse! Get out of here!!!
Frances giggles. We all giggle. Gabriel has a joke, and he loves it. We move on, past the hilarity. Gabriel tells Papa the joke at dinner. He is so very tired, he sits on my lap and leans his head against me while I feed him black beans all mushy with yogurt and avocados. He mumbles things like: 'Cado. Good. Hug Mama.
Usually when I put Gabriel down in his crib to sleep at night, I whisper goodnight and he snuggles into sleep position in silence while I cover him up and quietly walk out of the room. Tonight I lowered him into the crib and just before he hit the mattress, he reached up and touched my arm and whispered: nursing nurse. I could feel his big smile in the dark.
He is a dear one, that boy. He has found many things funny, and made us all laugh in the past - but up until today his humor was more physical, absurdist. It usually involved placing objects on his head that don't belong there and declaring: a hat! But today he took a linguistic turn, things got a little more sophisticated...it's part of his speaking explosion of recent weeks that has all three of us smiling all the time. What a thrill, to witness this boy coming to language, enthralled by the wonders of words. 

family crafting to the rescue

We returned from Thanksgiving with my stellar hostess of a mother yesterday. We departed after countless trips up and down the stairs, our car jammed with dirty clothes, books, shoes for running and shoes for dressing up, sacks of whole wheat pastry flour in pleasingly plain brown paper, wooden chairs for small people to sit on, diapers, peanut butter sandwiches, Widget, Ha Ha, and four clementines with their peels carefully removed in a small plastic bag.
(I told you she was stellar.) 
While in Lancaster, I visited the health clinic where I used to work. Amelia had asked if I'd like to help transport Thanksgiving dinners donated by families at Frances' old school for clinic patients (a project I once organized), and I happily agreed. I hadn't visited since we moved to Annapolis well over a year ago, and it sounded like fun to see everyone. Fun. Of the light-hearted, lots of hugs and how-are-yous variety.
Has this ever happened to you? I bounded in with boxes of donated meals, feeling good in a very uncomplicated way, and within a few minutes I was fighting off tears. The more people I saw at the clinic, the more weepy and disoriented I felt. What was going on? Every time someone told me how much I was missed, each time someone joked about when I was coming back to work, I felt my knees grow weaker. My face get hotter. My responses get less and less light-hearted.
Uh, no, I guess I don't love Annapolis. Uh, no, still not working. Oh, but I really love being with my kids! I do! And we're fine, I mean, I think we're fine, I mean, it's totally great, and I can tell you're so busy right now, wow, it is SO GOOD to see you and I should really get back to carting those boxes...
Etc. Mumble and stumble some more, feeling sweaty and downright unhinged. This continued until I met up with Amelia in her car and burst into tears. I was caught off guard! Unfair! I had no idea I was walking into a trap -  a trap to show me how much I miss my old identity, miss working with the poor, miss excellent and dedicated colleagues, miss a sense of larger mission about my daily tasks. I miss being known as someone besides a wife and mother!
The tears continued for the next 24 hours or so. I felt utterly depressed and lost about my life, unable to shake it (and really, only able to succumb to this sort of thing because I was with my mama). I could barely explain to Mike and my mom what was going on inside me; I wasn't sure myself. Life with my children has been more satisfying and joyful in recent months than ever it has been...and yet. My own work is missing, and the imbalance is getting to me.
So. So, I am rededicated to working this one out, and perhaps I'll have more to say on that in another post. But this post is about a fine antidote to disorientation and uncertainty about my professional future - family crafting.
More of the same? Really, Meagan? Aren't you telling us you need a change? Well, yeah, I guess so, but when all four of us sat down in our pajamas this morning to glue and paint and marker felt squares for an advent calendar, I felt an unexpected blast of reassurance and peace. This new chapter in my life is still unfolding. Not knowing how I - how we - will find the new equilibrium is not easy to tolerate. But to hear Gabriel hoot and holler about the lellow paint, the geen and the boo, to see Frances assemble Rothko-esque felt squares from ribbon cut and pasted in layers, to watch Mike lay out little white and black beans and study them carefully before applying the glue...to swim in our familial creative waters and sprinkle the wheat berries onto the blue felt before me...for a few moments no one was speaking. In that quiet I think I heard my heart take stock of the fears of the week before, and grow in faith and love anyway. It'll be okay.

This is where our calendar is tonight. It makes me so happy. It is a beautiful document, for me, of our loving family in this moment of growing and not-knowing what the future will bring.

Stepping off the Big Insights pedestal and back down to the nitty gritty for a moment: we did have so much fun working on this today, pulling out every bit of crafting material we could find. I hot-glued the felt squares tonight to make little pockets out of them. (What can't a person do with felt and a hot glue gun? I plan to make Frances' prom dress with just these items...). Tomorrow I'll make loops at the top and figure out a way to add numbers below the pockets. Hopefully it will involve more hot-gluing. Man, that is satisfying stuff.

glamorous, yet practical

Here's a fun little craft project Frances and I worked on together a few days ago. It was so satisfying to make - the process and the finished product - that I wanted to share it with all of you, just in case you have also been wishing for a bejeweled pencil holder and can't wait until Christmas.

We started with an egg carton, which we filled with all the 'jewels' we could find in the pantry. The red lentils added lovely color, and the pepitas were a particular hit, because we could munch on them as we worked.

We used a toilet paper roll as the base. I couldn't find one initially, so in a fit of indulgence I let Frances spin half a roll of paper off onto the table. Talk about process! I then cut a circle of paper to fit the bottom and reinforced it with masking tape. I also reinforced the peely parts of the tube with tape and covered the whole thing in brown paper.

Then came the fun part, painting glue on the sides and sprinkling and pressing the jewels all over the thing. As soon as it was dry enough to handle, Frances raced to fill it with its intended items:

She will tell you, it nicely accomodates one pair of kid scissors, four pens and two pencils. Not bad. And it looks even nicer now that the glue has completely dried. 

didi and the too-bigs

Yesterday I took the kids to a popular local playground. It was a beautiful day, yellow sunlight filtering through the trees, just cool enough for a scarf. As we approached the playground, Frances looked up at me with her big eyes and said, Maybe we'll meet some new friends today!!
I heard all the screaming and boisterous play coming from the playground, and I thought: uh, maybe, yeah. Frances is intensely social, but also - perhaps because of that - she can feel overstimulated, a little manic, brittle, in big busy social settings featuring lots of kids off their leashes. (Did I just suggest children are like dogs? Yes, I think I did.) Let's just say many a meltdown has occurred in the vicinity of the swings.
You may be wondering who the too-bigs are. That moniker dates back to the 2007-2008 toddler class at the New School in Lancaster, and refers to the big kids who can take over a playground in seconds, who can knock a toddler off her feet as they barrel past on the bridge or push a tentative three year old aside at the top of the slide, making him fear for his life. Too many too-bigs can ruin a perfectly pleasant day at the playground.
So, back to yesterday. Frances takes stock of the social opportunities before her, looks at me a little grumpily, mutters something about how there aren't kids here her age to play with. I suggest we hop aboard the planet taxi, which always cheers her up (a little platform featuring the solar system in relief). Gabriel adores spinning the big wheel opposite the planets and Frances starts her imaginary play motor running, chattering about tickets and which planet we'll be stopping at first and how long it will take us to arrive. She tries engaging other kids, but no luck. She is so earnest about it! She climbs up to the next platform to ask an older girl in sparkly pink mary janes if she'd like to join us on our planet taxi? because we're visiting all the planets and you can get on board! Do you want to play? And the girl looks askance, tilts her head to one side, and informs Frances she is already playing with someone else and doesn't want to. And then she runs past towards the wobbly bridge.
Oh, it pains me!
Frances is getting discouraged. She heads for her most successful spot - the place she has roped in countless children before - the pretend ice cream store. This is a little window she can lean out of and hawk her 'cinnamon surfer' and 'chocolate chocolate chocolate' flavors to all the kids heading up the stairs to go down the big slide. It's prime real estate. But today, what is with these kids?? No one wants any pretend ice cream! Gabriel is admirably game; he keeps repeating CHOCOLATE! and smiling, almost falling off of some nearby climbing apparatus, waiting for the actual chocolate to appear. Suddenly I notice about 5 older boys have surrounded Frances and her ice cream stand. They look between 6 - 8 years old, and they are standing a little too close to her. Their ringleader is whacking his hand violently on the top of the stand, almost immediately over her head. She looks out of her depth. I feel my feet moving towards the scene before I even know I'm going to intervene. I hear the boy tell her we don't want your ice cream in a rather not-nice tone. I squat down so I am eye level with him. I feel hot rage coursing through me and I tell him with quiet restraint that he is not being very nice at all. Would he and his friends give her a little space? Go play somewhere else. And when I finish, I find I am staring at his still-whacking hand. He looks at it too. He explains sheepishly that's he just bouncing a pretend basketball upside down on this part of her ice cream restaurant.
He is a little boy, after all.
Frances looks at me, disoriented. I cheerfully suggest we take Gabriel to another part of the playground, maybe play on the swings, okay? On the way Frances mournfully wonders out loud why none of the kids want to play with her today. My heart breaks a little. I help Gabriel up to a slide and watch him go down it. I help him again. Perhaps 2 minutes have passed. I turn around and Frances is running across the playground hand in hand with our basketball bully. She catches my eye and yells WE'RE PLAYING GHOST TAG AND ZACHARY IS MY PARTNER!!!!
He smiles at me too.
For the rest of our visit, she is playing ghost tag hard, running like crazy, screaming louder than any of them (and you know she can), finding and losing Zachary over and over, informing every parent and grandparent on the playground of the rules of the game while she catches her breath. (Someone is the ghost; that's all I could figure out). She is plotting, directing, heading off to do some tricks that will help her game, heading back into the fray, a small girl among many bigger boys in a bright blue old pilly fleece jacket and uncombed hair. She is mine.
But how did it happen? How did she do it? I realize that my own memories tell me a lot about social misfires, feeling funny and let down, feeling outside of some social reality I can't quite crack or understand. But this quality Frances has, this charisma and confidence she can access - I was never that kid. So I don't expect her to be, but so often, she is. She got off the planet taxi, strode right into life on earth, and made it hers.
Was it a good idea to tell those boys to back off earlier in the afternoon? I'm not sure. They looked physically intimidating and it scared me. But Frances showed me she can handle it - not just handle it, she can excel in it. A ragamuffin queen of the too-bigs! I'm the one who needs to back off. She's got this.
And in some future posts, let's talk about the fact that a group of boys is far easier for her than a group of girls. Let's also talk about the image of Gabriel yelling DIDI!!!! and toddling after Frances as she booked across the playground with Zachary and his friends, totally unaware of him. Let's talk about sibling relationships.

My little ringleader, a sometime too-big herself.

and getting back to food...

Your responses have been extraordinary, these past 24 hours! I am truly grateful for such generous, smart, insightful and kind people in my life.

But enough talk about the pain of love! Let's get back to one of my favorite topics. I think we need to talk more about special magic green sauce. If you haven't been reading all the comments, here is the digest:

Milena has discovered raw spinach leaves also work well. So do smaller amounts of arugula, and soon perhaps she will report on a creamy pesto variation. I tried it this week with ricotta instead of cottage cheese - a bit denser (I added milk) but just as yummy. This makes me think I should try special magic orange sauce with a bit of squash or sweet potato, special magic pink sauce with tomatoes, etc...if anyone comes up with something interesting, do share!

And since you now know about the go-to kid meal in our house, I thought I'd also share the go-to adult fare. I must eat rice and dahl once or twice a week, and I'd eat it every day if anyone else would join me. As it is, Gabriel and Mike like it (within reason) and Frances loves when I make it, because she can have a dreamy all-white dinner of basmati rice, yogurt and cucumbers.
I do the most short-cuttingest technique imaginable with this. Every few months, I hit an Indian grocery (I like Ohm in Lancaster) and buy sambar masala spice mix, pickle, coriander chutney and a big bag of rice. And all sorts of other things that I may or may not be able to identify but have a pretty good feeling about. Here's what I do with it:

1. Saute onions in a lot of oil (I should use ghee, but oh well). I usually use one enormous onion, or two medium-sized ones. When they are translucent and soft, I add about 1 - 2 tbsp spice mix and continue sauteing until the onions are almost caramelized. Sometimes I add water to keep things from sticking too much.
2. While onions are mellowing in the spices, I cook about 2 cups of red lentils in water with a pinch of salt. When they are soft, I add the spiced onions and let the whole thing simmer for  a few minutes.

Voila!

I often add vegetables. I love a sprinkling of frozen peas at the end. I usually serve this with chutneys/pickles and some plain yogurt mixed with cucumbers, ladled over basmati rice. If not for Frances, I'd probably get a little more daring with the yogurt...grated carrots? Nuts? Tomatoes, scallions, garlic? All would be lovely, I think. I have a thing for mushy food and this really hits the spot.

And speaking of mushy food... I am the only person in the house that eats this one, but if it works for you, it really works. I found this recipe for a breakfast porridge a few months ago and I've been eating my own version of it ever since. I call it the growing edge of breakfast. It is a little challenging, truly. What I love is that it satisfies the yearning for things warm and mushy I feel at 6 am in our cold house, and all those whole grains keep my body busy for hours. I don't feel too full, and I'm not ready for lunch at 9:30! Amazing. I make it with golden raisins and vanilla soymilk. Sometimes I add some maple syrup if I'm not up to the challenge!

Anyone else want to share their beloved standard dishes?

how plans to write a love letter saved the day

This morning I woke up and determined it was time to try something new with Frances. We have been in an awfully snippy rhythm with each other. She baits, and I fall for it hook, line and sinker. I wind up hounding her about her manners or finishing her carrots or whatever - whatever offense is in front of me and seems most glaring (but is in fact pretty minor). She, predictably, finds my nit-picking equally awful and sufficient reason to say something mean to me or take her brother's toy. And the cycle continues! How to interrupt this madness?

I determined to blog a love letter to Frances tonight. Instead of feeling bad about myself and worrying about her limitations, I thought it would help to remember why she is so dear to me. No baby stories or vaseline-on-the-lens nostalgia allowed. This letter had to be an accounting in the here and now, a 'let me count the ways' type of deal. This would be a love letter. Hearts and cupids! I thought it was worth subjecting all of you to some real gooey gushy stuff, if it meant getting my relationship with the girl back on track.

So, on the way to school I'm thinking about this, and we're listening to Sufjan Stevens. It's been awhile, and Frances is asking me to turn it up, she can't quite remember hearing it before. Driving down Generals Highway, I glance at the children in the rear view mirror, both of them are staring off somewhere, very quiet. We arrive at school a few minutes early. I put the car in park and turn around. Frances, do you like this music? A grave, serious little face looks back at me and utters the word: yes.
Pause.
Mama, can we come up to the front seat and listen to more music with you? So that's what we do. Frances unbuckles herself and climbs into the driver's seat. I fetch Gabriel and we sit in the passenger seat. We three are very quiet, listening. I watch Frances, watch her face and her big eyes. I watch her body listening to the music, and eventually she looks at me and snuggles her face into my shoulder. Sigh. Time to go in to school.

After dropping her off, it occurs to me that the thing that can make me most annoyed (read: most worried) about Frances - the fact that she sometimes reacts to others' pain or disappointment inappropriately - this thing is maybe a defense against how very deeply she can feel. I can be so impatient when Frances doesn't seem to get that someone else is sad, or hurt, or scared - at least, when she doesn't respond in a caring way. But maybe the fact is that some part of her gets it all too well, and it's scary, and beyond her ability to understand cognitively, and leaves her exposed. And being four is maybe exposure enough.

Just watching her listen to the music this morning, absorbing the mood and language...I knew she was okay, doing her best to manage enormous emotions, and feeling just as lost as I was in our icky, mutually antagonistic mode. I decided to meet her where she was, and stop being disappointed in her after setting up situations that leave her coming up short. Perhaps I could even help her. What a thought!

So, what did that mean? Gabriel and I were at the craft store later, picking up some stickers and little things to send for a cousin's birthday. Some part of my brain began to anticipate Frances catching sight of these treasures and whining about how I NEVER get her ANY STICKERS not even one time not ever why CAN'T she have these stickers why aren't they for HER??? And then I felt my heart closing up, making judgments about how irrational the child is who gets stickers all the time and cannot even allow someone else a sheet of stickers on their birthday... and so I decided to handle the situation differently: I bought a sheet of stickers for her and a sheet for Gabriel. Blue butterflies for Frances and horses for the galloping boy. Stickers for everyone!

Gabriel was clutching his stickers in an iron grip when we arrived at school. Again, I felt the inward eye-rolling groan, bracing myself for the why-does-Gabriel-get-stickers-I-never-get-stickers-I-am-SO-ENVIOUS-Mama! torrent as soon as we met Frances outside school. But no! Wait! Another little self-intervention: I will not do that, I will not be annoyed at her before even setting eyes on her. I carried her stickers in, quite visible in my hand, ready to be offered before any injustice was registered.
It worked.
A happy greeting. A happy drive home. A happy, industrious spell making Courtney's birthday card.



A plan to have a party for one of Frances' invisible acquaintances that she chats with in the bathroom, Dister Lister*. An ascent up to her bedroom without any complaints (woah) for Quiet Time, where 45 minutes was peacefully spent reading books. A happy reunion after quiet time, and some silly party prep which involved selecting music, making snacks, and getting out the dress up clothes. Gabriel wore a gold skirt around his neck and we called him the King. Dister Lister came really late, after the dancing, but joined us for some stories on the couch. Frances sat on his head by accident.

I swear to you it was a beautiful day. I didn't even have to write that love letter. I realized how destructive I was being: waiting for her to whine, to tantrum, to screw up, and feeling the anger start to creep in before anything even happened! And in the past couple of weeks, something always did actually happen, but this had a lot to do with my fight-anticipating and even fight-picking.
I am not proud.

Today really was about meeting Frances where she is. Accepting it. Accommodating it, even. So she feels grumpy when other kids get stuff. So what? Today, I got her some stuff too so she wouldn't have to feel that. I'm not advocating stickers and ice cream whenever things look unpleasant. I remember reading in a Penelope Leach book that your kid is not spoiled if you truly enjoy giving her the things you do - if you don't feel manipulated or desperate about it. I gave a lot to Frances today. Not just the stickers. That set the tone, sure. But we spent a lot of time together, and I invited her to bring her imaginary world into our family world, which delighted her to no end.

I didn't feel pushed around today, not once. I felt my heart open to her. I felt the ice melt. She felt it too.
Oh, gratitude! For small shifts and loosenings, and for a dear precious girl so full of passion, big thoughts and big feelings. I love her. I love her like crazy.




*
M: How did you first meet Dister Lister?
F: Um. I was just like in a parking lot and I saw a mother, but not her boy, but then I heard a boy saying I'm Dister Lister!! and that's how I first met him.
M: What's he like?
F: He's invisible! Remember? You just see a mouth, and no face, and no shirt, and no body. Just a mouth.
M: Does he eat?
F: Yes.
M: What does he like?
F: Pasta. Green beans. That's all he likes.
M: Where does he live?
F: I'll check in this book (checks book she made this morning entitled The Myth of the Super, about a star that goes into a rainbow tunnel). Massachusetts.
Why don't you ask me another question about Dister Lister?
M: How old is he?
F: 6.
M: What's his school like?
F: Very fun. He has a desk.
M: What's his house like?
F: Red walls. A green roof. Ask me another question.
M: What are his favorite things to do?
F: Do homework. Ah...dress up. Those are his favorite things but he likes to do everything.
M: Will he like the party today?
F: uh huh, I think so.
M: Does he have any friends?
F: Yes. Like pretend friends. I don't remember their names.
M: Does he have any pets?
F: A dog. Placzki. Wanna ask me another question?
M: Nah. I want you to ask me a question instead.
F: Like what?
M: Like, anything you want to know.
F: No thanks.

children and animals

On Tuesday morning, I left the house to take a jog with Gabriel. We had just started out when a fox darted in front of us, running from one neighbor's yard, across the street, and into the woods behind another neighbor's house. We were flabbergasted. A fox! An enormous, red, black-tipped tailed fox! It ran with such impressive intensity - as if it were zipping through space on an invisible track - because its torso, face and tail were almost motionless, on the same horizontal plane, while its legs moved so fast they were a blur.

The day before, Gabriel and I were at a playground, killing some time before we had to pick up Frances from school. There were some other mothers and children there (it was unseasonably warm) and Gabriel was going down the slide again and again. My post was at the top of the slide, to help him sit down. Just at the moment when every blond head was bowed over a small person, to tie a shoe or offer a snack or to chastise, a deer bounded across the grassy field separating the parking lot from the playground. It came from the direction of the busy street we were but a few yards from, and ran straight into a stand of trees and then stood there, motionless, staring at us. It is strange, given how close this large wild animal was, but we were the only ones to see it. Everyone else was distracted, and Gabriel and I happened to be standing high up at the top of the slide, just the perfect viewing spot, and he looked at me, and I looked at him, and I whispered: a deer. A DEER!! shouted Gabriel. Then: GALLOP, GALLOP! (It had been running pretty fast). Then: BIG. Bi-i-i-i-g. Big Deer.

The two wild animal sitings have become linked for both of us. Sometimes, apropos of nothing, Gabriel will stop what he's doing and look at me in his unblinking serious soul window kind of way. With great intention he utters the words: a fox. Yes, Gabriel, we saw a fox. A deer! Big! Yes, we saw a deer too. A fox!!! And on and on, for a little while, we relive the events and feel little spine shivers all over again.

Even before this week, I've been thinking a lot about the intensity of feeling with which children seem to regard animals. From their earliest days we sing about farm animals, and read them books about talking animals; often first loves are dogs and cats. Perhaps we condition all this - perhaps we all have this intense feeling towards animals but it seems most manageable and appropriate in small children so we foist it onto them - but I think it is something deeper. I have this intuitive sense that children and animals are supposed to live together. Work together. What does that mean? I'm not sure. I have not, by any means, been fantasizing about getting a dog. No thank you. I have, however, been dreaming of chickens and goats in the backyard.

At the risk of getting all fuzzy and "spiritual" on you, I think small children feel a connection with animals that is fundamental and real; something for grown ups to respect and honor. And having a puppy in the house that acts like one extra kid doesn't seem to get to the nature of the thing. A goat that has a role in the family, a job to do (eat scraps, keep the grass short, whatever it is that goats do) - a kid could feel that such a goat was a partner in family life and work. A goat that lives outside, thus preserving its animal-ness. Not an animal that wears a sweater and has a flannel bed, but an animal that communicates the natural world to us, that is a bridge of sorts, that we care for and respect - this is what I'm longing for, for myself and for my kids.

Sometimes we run around the yard with leftover lengths of clothesline wrapped across the kids' chests and yell Gallop!! (hence Gabriel's response to the running deer) and Neigh!! and take turns being the horse and rider. Except after a few minutes, no one really knows who is what; we're just a wild jumble of kid and (pretend) animal, running and making noise. I love that. We're trying to touch something, something beyond the world of other people and the spaces they live in.

We've been to two zoos in the last couple of months (more than I'd been to in years). The children were fascinated. In Providence, we were able to hang out in the 'giraffe house' and watch a giraffe family munch hay but a few feet away. Just us and the giraffes (the zoo was remarkably empty that day). We were wide-eyed, awed, mesmerized - utterly caught by their gaze. In DC, Frances and Gabriel would have clung to a stone wall, staring at a gorilla mama and baby all day long, had we not eventually dislodged them. In this case, I too felt the possibility of forgetting time, watching these extraordinary human-like animals do human-like things...but I was struck violently by the suspicion that I was participating in an act of voyeurism that was completely wrong. That mama gorilla looked right into my eyes and I felt her accusing me. I am a mother too. So how could I stare like this? It seemed to me she deserved privacy and space to roam. I left conflicted about what a zoo is, and what it should be - the awe and wonder my children felt before the animals seem positive things, to be nurtured - but is encountering them in captivity the way to do it?

I've also - no surprise - been feeling drawn back towards vegetarianism. At the very least, I have resolved (again) to not participate in factory-farmed animal consumption. And I guess I feel like part of respecting the bond my children (all children?) feel with wild and domestic animals would be to keep industrial meat out of their orbits as well. They don't really eat meat anyway, but I've never suggested they shouldn't, and it has never bothered me if we're at other people's homes and meat is on offer - basically, I haven't enforced any rules. In fact, I've often thought that graciousness and flexibility with other people should trump preferences about diet. But now I'm not so sure.

All kinds of people surround their children with animals by way of pets, petting farms, zoos, animal-print clothes, animal books, music, etc. For many families, there doesn't seem to be any connection - or rather disconnection - between feeding children animals and simultaneously encouraging an intense (if arm's length) relationship with animals. But shouldn't there be? Maybe for much of our history, pre-industrial agriculture and pre-factory farming, the small scale proximity of humans and animals made for a more continuous and holistic world for children to enter in, to play and work in. I imagine that for most children growing up in Anne Arundel county 100 years ago, life presented many occasions - both mundane and spiritual - to be face to face with a horse, a deer, a fox, a rabbit. Maybe, then, eating some of those animals would not seem so very strange.

Thanks for hanging with all these disparate musings. For now, we're on the lookout for that fox.

a shopping list

special magic green sauce for everyone!

Some of you, I know, have children who eat actual food. They even enjoy it! The first time I met Henry he was munching on defrosted-in-Mommy's-purse frozen spinach with gusto. Katie and Elie once complimented me on my vegetable-heavy lentil soup, and with such disarming sincerity I could barely remember to say thank you.

Even my own little Gabriel slurped down a bit of curried sweet potato soup this evening. I still can't believe it when he happily eats my cooking. Frances is, and has almost always been, very into purity. White foods make her happiest. Plain, Mama! Will you make some plain for me? Pleeeeeeeze!

So the following recipes may not really be something you're looking for, but since we have found them so helpful, I thought I'd share them with you. I don't think this stuff officially falls into the sneaky-vegetable style cooking that Jerry Seinfeld's wife and others have advocated - or maybe it does - all I know is it makes this mama feel a tiny bit better about the mostly cheese and pasta diet my eldest adheres to. Disclaimer: I am a sloppy fast-and-loose sort of cook, so you may have to play around with the quantities to get it just right.


Special Magic Green Sauce

1/2 - 3/4 c cottage cheese
glug of olive oil
1/3 - 1/2 c frozen spinach
1/3 - 1/2 c grated parmesan (or pecorino, also good)
tiny splash of milk, if you want a runnier sauce
tiny pinch of salt

Blend it all up! I let everything sit for a couple of minutes so the spinach begins to thaw, then use our immersion blender. Pour it over just-cooked pasta. You can also do this without the spinach - it's creamier, and a perfectly good substitute for macaroni and cheese. I found I was able to resist the Annie's after we started making this sauce, in part because Frances actually likes it better, and if I buy an exciting shape of pasta she's especially happy.

**Addendum! Milena made this with fresh (raw) spinach leaves and also added garlic; Nathaniel had two helpings. Success!

Rice-Carrot Pancakes

1 c cooked brown rice
1/2 - 3/4 c grated carrots
about 1/2 a small onion, diced tiny
an egg
2 - 3 tbsp flour (I used chick pea flour)
pinch of salt
oil to fry

This is a new one. A nice way to use up extra rice - just mix everything together, add enough flour to make it stick together, heat up some oil and fry little patties of the stuff. The carrots become golden, the rice browns a little. We ate them latke-style, with applesauce. Yum.

Latest Quesadilla Filling: I mixed leftover roasted (mashed up) squash with canned refried black beans, added a bit of cheddar cheese, and both children gobbled them happily. I was sort of shocked that Frances went for it. I was inspired by the memory of those delicious sweet potato-black bean burritos out of the Moosewood cookbook. Remember??

And speaking of leftover squash...this one is for Marjorie and Diane:
Pumpkin Muffins
(my apologies to some anonymous baker -- I know I got this online but wrote it on a scrap of paper long ago and tweaked a bit since)
2 c whole wheat pastry flour
1/3 - 1/2 c ground flaxseed
1 tsp baking soda
1/2 tsp salt
1 tsp cinnamon
1/2 tsp ginger
1/2 tsp nutmeg
1/4 tsp cloves
3/4 c brown sugar*
3 tbsp molasses
1/4 c oil
2 eggs
1 c pumpkin
1 tsp vanilla
3/4 c buttermilk**

Mix everything up until the sugar in a medium bowl. Whisk the remaining ingredients - except for buttermilk - together in a large bowl. Then alternate pouring in the dry ingredients and the buttermilk to the wet ingredients, whisking as you go. Depending on how watery your squash is, you may need to add more flour or flaxseed or, come to think of it, wheat germ at the end to get a consistency that seems right to you. I also think grated apples would be a lovely addition to these. Bake at 400 for about 20 minutes.
*I've also used 1/2 c honey instead and they were great.
**I often do the sour milk trick when buttermilk is too much of a pain to get: a dribble of vinegar in your measuring cup, then fill the rest of the way with milk. Let is sit for a few minutes.

to readers, with love

Tonight I want to thank all of you for actually reading this and sticking with it, even though it isn't quite the mama-friend resource center/support group I originally had planned. It's nothing that useful; just another stay-at-home mama blog all about yours truly and the little ones. I've joined the legions of ladies chatting about life on the homefront and I must admit, it's pretty fun.
This little project has had unanticipated consequences, for which I am deeply grateful. (Here is where you come in.) After 18 months of stay-at-home living, most of it done in a new town where I am relatively unknown outside my roles as wife and mother, I'm afraid my confidence was beginning to crumble. I suspect this is fairly typical for others in my position, but its universality doesn't lessen the sting: it was hard to remember if I was good at things besides getting plastic barrettes to stay in place and executing stand-up diaper changes. We would go to dinner parties and I felt I had nothing to contribute. I felt exposed without my kids, or without the ability to talk about them. I used to be interesting, I swear! Invite me over in a few years, I'll tell charming anecdotes that do not rely on the zany antics of preschoolers, I promise!
Strangely enough, writing about the zany antics of preschoolers has helped enormously to quell this fear that there is a vacuum where my adult self with all its capabilities and agency used to be. Turns out I'm still here. Sharing some of the bits of my daily life with all of you has reminded me of that - and the support, kindness and enthusiasm you've expressed for this funny little family journal has helped shore up some of my crumbling confidence. Writing itself is a restorative pleasure I had forgotten about. But the love and kindness this thing has generated have buoyed me up, up, up to a place where I can look all around and feel sincere gratitude for this time with my children. Yeah, yeah, I complain a lot about the limits of my life now, but your responses have helped me see through all the junk to what's real and true.
Thank you, thank you.

homemade time

The scene: our utterly chaotic pre-dinner kitchen, Gabriel doing laps around our first floor carrying an enormous plastic piece of a toy kitchen, saying "HEAVY... HEAVY!" to indicate that he can barely lift the thing, Frances telling me all about how in this doctor's office you can have more than one appointment and now she's fixed the ear infection so what ELSE is wrong with your baby today - when suddenly she is struck with hunger and the following exchange ensues.

Frances: How many minutes until dinner, Mama?
M: About twenty.
F: Oh no! But that is so long! (runs away to the living room. runs right back.)
Mama! Do you know how you can make homemade time? Homemade twenty minutes?
M: Why, no, I don't know how to make homemade time.
F: You just count to sixty twenty times in a row! Then you've made homemade twenty minutes! (rushes off to sit in her chair at the dining room table; begins to count).

My dear daughter! Thinking she can take charge of time. If only. But I love this idea; so much so I'm considering renaming the blog. I love that for her the way to take charge of - to put her own special stamp on - bread or a Halloween costume is for it to be homemade, so why not apply the same principle to time?

We think a lot about creating a homemade space to live in, homemade food to eat, homemade (or rather homegrown) plants and vegetables and herbs to surround us and nurture us... what does it mean to create homemade time? Apropos of Amelia's latest post, and a talk with Cameron last night about waiting for children to get old enough to hike, or to read quietly by themselves ... and also the feeling I had today on the way to school (Gabriel screaming in his car seat and Frances faux screaming so she wouldn't feel left out) - the feeling that I simply would never make it until bedtime - you are getting the idea. The character of time has changed since having children. Long days, short years. Isn't that what Grandmother Presler used to say?

There is a certain blur-like quality that seems unavoidable in time spent parenting small children. But I don't want to lose it, either, even though I have been near tears wishing for time to pass a little more briskly. I have also often felt a certain frantic grasping at time, during those extraordinary bursts of in-the-moment joy so acute they hurt. They hurt because they are slipping away even as they are realized, like so many brilliant golden paw paw leaves, now curled up and brown on our lawn.

So I get it, kid. I would like to sit down and count to sixty with you at the dining room table, in the middle of all this mess and lunacy.

I am going to keep thinking about homemade time, and what that means for me and my family. I think perhaps it might have to do with those rare times when I'm able to let go of my agenda and experience time with my children, to encounter the world alongside them, at their pace. Like walking today with Gabriel, stopping to touch the fuzzy tall grass and to admire the green pickup truck and to wave goodbye to the bushy orange mums in a neighbor's yard. A seven minute walk took thirty minutes, but so what? Where did I have to be just then? Nowhere but with him.

two little speckled frogs

And now for a lighter-hearted post. You do need to see a little bit of Halloween, right?



Trick or treating is AWESOME, even in the rain, even with a persistent ear infection.









This spider was/is the most beloved item in Gabriel's haul.



Candy makes us happy. I decreed the family-wide rule: two pieces per day. Eat them whenever you want. (In Frances' case, that's by 7:30 am every morning). Don't tell anyone, but I'm afraid this mama broke her own rule within hours of making it.

gender, continued

I have tried responding to Amelia twice and somehow my comment disappears! I have apparently figured out how to post but not how to comment. Very frustrating. Also embarrassing. So I will comment here, on a new post:

First, I had no idea that concerns about gender equity were part of why Michael hesitated to have children. (Hard to believe we haven’t talked about this more in the past). I have always envied you your shared job, and admired that it wasn’t just about ‘having more time for the kids’ but also about having more time for other projects, for flexibility, for yourselves and each other – and now I also get how it helps ensure equal status, at least in the eyes of the world and in terms of your paycheck. It seems an ideal starting place if equity is the goal, though I imagine even so negotiation about who does what and how is required.
Speaking of negotiation. Because of the nature of Mike’s job, how it expands and contracts and is ever-present, we aren’t able to come up with rules about who does what to ensure a balance. (Rules can be dumb anyway). That means we need to communicate regularly about these things, and communication of that sort requires time and energy, two things young children sap with a relentless ferocity the likes of which I’d never encountered before they arrived.
But even more than the confines of work life right now, I think the thing that demands negotiation is what you refer to in part 2. We figured out before the kids that gender equity cannot mean splitting everything down the middle, 50/50, because we are different. We have different strengths and desires and we simply would not enjoy our lives as much – we would not flourish - if such a structure were enforced. Truth be told, I desire to care for the children more than Mike does. I want to make papier mache maracas and fall trees. I love cooking. He loves gardening. I prioritize a clean bathroom. He doesn’t mind folding laundry. But put a little stress on the system (too much work, an ear infection) and we get into our own gender-associated ghettos that can lead us to bad places, unless we actually talk about it.
It seems like a goal might be to live day to day life as equal partners. A partnership of equals, wherein both people feel free to express discontent, free to ask for change, able to listen, able to adapt.
I do miss sharing domestic tasks, the way we did before children. This seems a major loss to me. Now we must divide and conquer, or at least divide and do an okay job. Perhaps when the children are older we’ll be able to cook together again.
Now I’m off to work on my resume. ! I’ve decided to try to market myself as a freelance writer and editor for non-profits and NGOs around here – a way to stay connected to the things I am passionate about, use some of my skills, and hopefully develop good connections for future work. What do you think?

p.s. HOW WAS PARIS???? Please tell us about what it is like to be away for so long...in the world's most beautiful city, speaking a bit of French, drinking excellent coffee, etc.!

Mrs. Piggle-Wiggle's cure for retro gender roles

For those of you that knew me when, you may remember many a conversation - either in the "ding king" '94 Altima, or over red plastic plates long scraped clean of chick peas in a cramped apartment - in which I muddled through problems of gender and power with persistence and perhaps way too much emotion. You know how girls can be.
Ha.
Before we had children, we talked a lot about gender roles and balance and communication. Mike was reading continental philosophy in grad school. I was reading Jane Austen novels over and over and thinking about social work. There was so much to talk about! When I was in grad school, I thought about how policy can address the vulnerability of girls and women. I thought about how men could and should change, and how that change might be facilitated through policy and social programs.
I still think about these things (albeit distractedly). But recently I realized that Mike and I left the more elusive, philosophical conversation about the nature of gender and how it shapes our lives behind; it must have been sometime during Frances' babyhood. Life took over and filled up all the old spaces, leaving much less time and energy for those demanding talks. But I miss them! I miss talking about those things that are deeper and un-legislatable. A mysterious force that leads me to say "sure, of course I can help" or even, "please, what can I do to help?" when I simply have nothing left to give. The inevitable private resentment that follows, the difficulty I have with asking for help and expressing anger.
Perhaps you are wondering what any of this has to do with mothering or my children. Two things happened recently that made me realize I am in dire need of examining gender anew: Edith told me to read Freaky Fortnight, and Frances and I have read a couple of Mrs. Piggle-Wiggle books. I haven't read all of Freaky Fortnight but what I did knocked something loose for me. Becoming a stay at home mother has showed me that the door leading back to the fifties is definitely still open (I even just painted my kitchen pink!!) and if I slept less and drank more, I can easily imagine heading into an outrageous vision of family life straight out of Madmen. If I didn't pay attention, I'd clean all day and feel low-level unexpressed anger and start squeezing my kids' arms a little too tight on the way out of the grocery store.
Oh, it gives me the shivers! Not just for myself, but for my growing kiddos.
When I worked and Mike stayed home, we glowed with self-congratulation thinking about how Frances had a Papa who fed her lunch and took her to the playground, and how she would be so much more flexible in her own ideas about what men and women do. It was part of what sustained me during that time - I believed what we were doing would be of great benefit both to Mike and Frances. Then Mike got a fabulous demanding job in a weird town, and I happily agreed it was my turn to stay home. But it is different.
In Mrs. Piggle-Wiggle, Frances pointed out to me that "it seems like all the mamas in this book stay home and all the papas go to offices!" and also that "the papas are always reading the paper and not helping the kids while the mamas give everyone breakfast!" and suddenly I wanted to shut the book and throw it into the scary buggy part of the basement where no one ever goes. The worst part is that breakfast at our house is not so different. Okay, Mike is MUCH better about not reading the paper during breakfast these days. I made a request. That worked out pretty well.
But what to do about the gender roles in all our favorite books? I have been so looking forward to sharing Louisa May Alcott and Laura Ingalls Wilder ... but now I feel a bit ambivalent. I loved Beth so much in Little Women. It seemed perfect that she died. She gave so much that she DIED. Do I really want to shove this at my own children? Has anyone struggled with this? Beautiful books full of sacrificing women and heroic absent men? Perhaps when I return to work and have something else to model for my kids it won't bother me quite so much.


On another note, here is some Frances-style Halloween. "It's a tiny newborn ghost and a bat who just ate a mosquito, because the mosquito bit the ghost and sucked the ghost's blood. That's why the mosquito is red. And the ghost has a bandaid for the bite. And I don't know who the person is."

And on another, totally unrelated note, here are some little things that I love right now, that perhaps you might love too:
1. My stick blender that we make frozen raspberry-banana-milk smoothies with every day, and also now that it is autumn, soups like this one. So good with a big dollop of yogurt swirled in.
2. Dr. Seuss books. I'm falling in love all over again, except this round is even sweeter because Frances sometimes reads and Gabriel repeats every fifth word she says and he gets very, very excited whenever anyone suggests it might be story time.
3. Getting ready for Halloween with Frances and Gabriel. We make a little bit of their froggy costumes every day out of felt bits. Frances put all the (mostly green) felt scraps into the salad spinner this morning and told us she making some salad. Sabrosa! (Thank you again Dan Zanes for all the new Spanish words in our house).
4. Storynory. Frances had a low fever yesterday and contentedly listened to Natasha read chapters 4 - 7 of Through the Looking Glass. I haven't explored the site much but there are many appealing stories for children, and that Natasha is some reader. Thank you Milena!